Woman in the Garden

Mother was a city girl who became a whiz at making things grow

By Joyce Reehling

The last time I pulled a weed in a vegetable patch was somewhere in the ’60s, and I don’t mean my age. Our family lived in a rural part of Maryland, and we always had a vegetable garden. We had tomatoes of several varieties, corn, lettuces and other things that came and went. Some vegetables got kicked off the list if we didn’t like them, or they didn’t grow and can well.

My mother was a city girl from Baltimore, and the idea that she ended up plunked down in a rural county and adapted so well to the life is nothing short of a miracle. She had my twin sister and me, which was enough to kill some women right there. She learned to can or, as a friend always said, “put up,” tomatoes — stewed and otherwise — green beans, corn and I don’t know what all. She did it to save money, which our little family needed.

Our beloved neighbor, John Howard, came down our long gravel drive with his team of horses and a plow to churn up our back garden area. There was plenty of room for long rows of corn and tomatoes, beans and what you will. John loped down the lane and set to work while we twins badgered him with questions about the horses.

Once done, we waited for Dad to return from some sales trip. Now, this was not your semi-glamorous business trip. Dad drove a 1953 Chevy, his car of choice until he threw her over for a Fiat and its scarce spare parts — another story and another reason my mother showed restraint. His territory meant days, and sometimes weeks, on the road. No fancy hotels for him, just clean, humble motels. It sounded like a great life to us as kids. Now, I know better.

He took great joy in the garden planting. When he left on his next trip, it was Mom and her child laborers who watered, weeded and harvested. Mainly weeded. We were told to weed in the early morning but, to our eternal regret, always put it off. There is no joy in weeding — not no way, not no how.

But, the perfect joy of playing in the hot sun and grabbing a ripe tomato, washing it off under the hose with cold water pumped from our well cannot be equaled. There is something about the heat of the sun in the tomato, and the cold of the well water on the skin. Delicious and pristine in flavor.

The canning would begin, and the heat in the kitchen was nearly unbearable. Air conditioning was years in the future. My mom, slight as she was, was lifting big pots of water and bunches of hot jars. My ears still ring with, “You get away from there while I do this,” words spoken only around the hot water. I can see her still with her hair plastered against her head, red-faced and determined. Gardening was not for the faint of heart, then or now, if you are not blessed with a cool place to “put up.”

Mom had more gardens than I can count. She put up tons of food and managed not to kill anyone while she did it. Nor did she take to drink or drugs which, given the heat, a set of twins and, later, two other girls 18 months apart, tells you a lot about inner strength.

My father took charge of the garden when he was home. A Marine in World War II, he assumed control — if not expertise — and ran us like a little battalion. It’s true, we did not always cry when his car pulled out of the drive. Weeding can do that to you.

The year my father planted enough potatoes to feed all of Maryland was almost the end. We had potatoes piled so high in the dirt cellar you couldn’t see a 12-year-old child on the other side. Rebellious cries of “not more potatoes” began to be heard at dinner in our home.

It is only a strong woman who doesn’t either leave or take up a gun after a summer like that. Women have the strength of 10 when it comes to the must-dos of life. Stand back and bet on ’em each and every time. Or starve.  PS

Joyce Reehling is a veteran actor of stage and screen and an old friend of PineStraw.

A Passion for Plants

Mary Francis Tate insists that every house deserves a setting

By Deborah Salomon

photograph by Laura Gingerich

Monet used paint — Rodin, bronze. Hemingway relied on words while Dior draped taffeta. Mary Francis Tate expresses her art through trees, shrubs, flowers, stones, water and grass, since, she believes, no well-designed building, residential or commercial, looks complete without a setting.

Hardly a new idea. Peruse Versailles, Biltmore Estate and the Taj Mahal, whose gardens symbolize paradise. Fredrick Law Olmsted himself taught that landscape architecture/design “brings out the genius of a place.”

Tate’s vocational roots spring from Clarendon Gardens, the Sandhills’ own Garden of Eden; in 1945 her father, successful paper manufacturer Francis Howe, moved the family from Buffalo, New York to 25 acres with a historic home in Pinehurst. “He had the bright idea to develop a private garden, which became a public garden,” Tate says. Howe collected plants from all over the world. “I was only a little girl but I followed him around — I loved the plants.”

By the 1950s this plant paradise had become a tourist attraction second only to golf. Tate studied landscape design and horticulture at N.C. State and worked at Clarendon Gardens until it was purchased for residential development. The results made her “very sad.”

Beginning in 1972 Mary Francis and her naval officer husband, Bob Tate, were stationed in Turkey, where she met the U.S. ambassador, William Macomber Jr., and his wife, Phyllis, who hired her to redesign the embassy gardens. “Mrs. Macomber sent a handwritten note by chauffeur-driven limousine to our apartment and waited for my answer,” which impressed the neighbors. “This was a huge job, five acres, with 10 gardeners at my beck and call.” She was given carte blanche, allowing her to order seeds, bulbs and plants from Europe and elsewhere.

Once back in the Sandhills Tate established her own design business — with many visual signatures, including symmetry: “I like curves and tumbled-brick privacy walls to block unsuitable views.” Her arrangements often contain benches, statuary and water environments. She enjoys making swimming pools look like rock-rimmed ponds and transforming culverts into babbling brooks. Soil enhancement, grading, terracing, walkways, tree placement and perennials complete the package.

The Firestone and Reynolds families have been clients.

“None of my jobs look the same,” Tate says, a result of investigating not only a client’s preferences and childhood recollections (“Do they remember climbing a maple tree?”) but the interior of the house. This means no red azaleas framing the window of a room decorated in pink. And no formal Japanese garden surrounding a Charleston plantation. No idea is too far-fetched, either. Her scrapbook contains “secret” walled gardens and examples of what the British call a “folly”; she constructed what appeared to be the broken-down corner of an old building, then smothered the ruin in vines. Another time she positioned a dead pine tree to look as though it had a fallen and weathered naturally. The list of unusual elements includes a “ha-ha” — a deep trench dug between pasture and lawn to keep animals from crossing — instead of a fence to block the view.

Tate is also known for strong (and sometimes salty) opinions, namely that landscape design, trees, shrubs and plants are as important as house and furnishings, therefore deserving of generous funding. “I want people to be so excited about creating that they don’t think about the cost.  Because what’s more important than having a lovely property to show off a home?”

Tate deplores contractors who think a flatbed of assorted plants from a convenient nursery constitutes landscaping. Shabby work like ignoring soil conditions or selecting plants that will outgrow their space provokes anger. “I’m heartbroken when (my projects) aren’t maintained.” Clients like Peggy Adair, who moved to CCNC in 1994, stay with Tate long term. “We worked together to give a brick ranch house more character,” Adair says. When the Adairs needed a fenced yard for their poodle, Tate softened it with boxwoods. “She moves plants around, is constantly doing something — the garden is still a work in progress.”

Well into her 70s, Tate has no plans for retirement. “I can’t wait to get up in the morning and get to work.” She still reels off Latin botanical tongue-twisters like a spelling-bee champ. She mastered computer design programs, accepts out-of-town assignments, travels to garden shows and studies how trends in architecture influence landscape design.

But this has not changed: her passion.

“I love plants,” Tate exclaims, fervently. “How can you not love them? I treat them like children. They are my world.”  PS

Tobacco Road Home

An ode to Nabs, gnats and gummy leaves that stir memories

By Tom Allen

The hardest work I’ve ever done. That’s how I described “barning tobacco” to a young relative who knew little of the history behind harvesting North Carolina’s infamous bright leaf. The heat and humidity extracted plenty of sweat. Mingle that with dirt and tobacco gum, throw in a hoard of gnats and a day’s labor sounds miserable. It was. And I loved it.

Early 19th century innovation introduced a tobacco variety that thrived in the coastal plain’s sandy soil. When leaves turned a yellow-green, the sugar content had reached its peak. The flavor of this quick-cured leaf became popular with smokers; soon North Carolina led the nation in tobacco production.

For decades, tobacco was picked by hand. Migrant workers harvested leaves for larger operations, but on small farms, for a boy willing to work, tobacco offered summer income and poignant memories.

For me, growing up in rural Carolina during the 1970s, barning tobacco meant rising early, sticky leaves dripping with dew, and long days of humid heat.

The farmer I worked for was kind and easygoing. “Mr. Gerald” would make the rounds in our community, picking up teenage boys eager to work. He knew us and we knew each other. We played together, attended school together, worshipped together. Harvesting tobacco, also known as priming, was an extension of community.

Our dress code was far from summer casual. Clothes protected us from the blistering sun and sticky sap. Everything was old or worn — tennis shoes, faded jeans, dad’s long-sleeved shirt, a dirty ball cap. After the final harvest, we pitched the rags.

Those first primings were the hardest. Harvesting sand lugs, bottom leaves that hugged the soil, nearly broke our backs. As summer burned into fall, we worked our way down the rows and up the stalks, snapping leaves with one hand, cradling them under the other arm. Each harvest brought less bending. As stalks became leafless, ventilation improved. In a tobacco field, you welcome any whiff of a breeze.

Mr. Gerald, out of kindness, gave younger boys rows closest to the tractor-pulled trailer. Kids hardly ever quit. A few steps and they could slap their harvest on the “drag,” a name recalling days when mules pulled harvesting sleds through the fields. Three rows harvested, then a break. Water-filled coolers were always on the drag. Mr. Gerald took us home for lunch and maybe a quick rest before the afternoon stint. He provided twice-daily snacks, mostly Honey Buns, Twinkies and Lance cheese Nabs. We poured down Dixie cups filled with crushed ice and Pepsi. Breaks were also for laughing, horseplay, and listening to our boss expound on politics or religion.

In the afternoon, with harvesting finished for the day, we stopped by the barn where women piled leaves on an electric contraption that strung primings onto wooden sticks. Mr. Gerald’s older sons hoisted those heavy sticks, straddled the barn’s tier poles and hung the leaves to cure. A rite of passage (and a real test of strength) came when an older boy was allowed to straddle the poles and “hang.” One day of straddling was enough for me.

On Friday, Mr. Gerald came to my home and handed me a small manila envelope marked with my name and the amount — $66.37 or $72.81 or $52.95. I have no idea why he didn’t round those numbers. I never calculated or knew my hourly wage. What mattered was hard work, mixed with a little fun, paid off.

North Carolina remains number one in tobacco production, although that production has declined substantially. The tobacco barns of my youth, if still standing at all, are dilapidated icons from another era. Automation and galvanized bulk barns replaced hand-harvesting and flue-curing. Tobacco warehouses have become condos and boutique malls; stained boards, reclaimed and refinished, are prized as flooring in pricey homes.

The ethics of growing tobacco have changed. Tobacco has always been a strange bedfellow in the Bible Belt. While the bright leaf fueled the state’s economy for decades, providing income to small family farms and resources that built colleges, hospitals, even churches, pulpit-pounding preachers (many of them paid from the tithes of tobacco farmers) railed against the evils of cigarettes. The evidence that smoking was deadly continued to mount. Some farmers still wrestle with growing a crop that, when processed, lit and inhaled, can cause debilitation or death. Those tensions endure.

Sometimes, on a humid late summer night, if the wind is blowing just right, I catch a whiff of curing leaves, from a farm near our house in Whispering Pines. Every day I drive past tobacco fields. Occasionally, I see workers snapping off flowering tips or mechanical harvesters stripping ripened leaves. Though I have no desire to experience the heat and gnats and gummy leaves, I’m grateful for the work ethic, the rhythm of labor and leisure, of rest and recreation, those fields instilled. And sometimes, when I see a field of ripened leaves, I want to stop, spread out under a shady oak tree, and wash down a pack of Nabs with Pepsi from a Dixie cup, all the while pondering how tobacco roads still lead me home.  PS

Tom Allen is minister of education at First Baptist Church, Southern Pines.

Grasspipers

‘Tis the season for “Buffies,” “Uppies” and killdeer

By Susan Campbell

As the long days of summer wane here in the Piedmont and Sandhills of North Carolina, we have scores of birds preparing for that long southbound journey we refer to as fall migration. Thousands of birds pass by, both day and night, headed for wintering grounds that are deep in the Southern Hemisphere. Some seem very unlikely candidates: medium-bodied shorebirds, dropping down in flocks to replenish their reserves. They may stay a few hours or a few days, depending on the weather and the abundance of food available to them. At first glance, you might think these long-legged birds are lost — far from the coast where sandpipers are commonplace. But once you take a good look, you will realize these are birds of grassland habitat, not sand flats.

Referred to broadly as “grasspipers” by birders, these species forage on a wide variety of invertebrates found in grassy expanses. They breed in open northern terrain, all the way up into the Arctic in some cases. And they are moving through in order to make their way to grassland habitat in southern South America. Although some may be seen along our coastline, they are more likely to be found in flocks or loose groups at airports, sod farms, athletic fields and perhaps even tilled croplands.

Come late August and early September, armed with binoculars, and, better yet, a powerful spotting telescope, you can find these cryptically colored birds without having to travel too far from home. They are indeed easy to miss unless you know where to look at the right time. Flocks often include a mix of species, so be ready to scrutinize each and every bird, lest you overlook one of the rarer individuals. When it comes to shorebirds as a group, many of the dozens of species are tricky to identify, so I suggest you arrange to join a more accomplished birder for starters.

The most common and numerous species without a doubt is the killdeer, identified by dark upper parts contrasted with white underparts, but it’s the double neck ring that gives it away. A spunky bird whose name comes from its call, the killdeer nests (if you can call a rudimentary scrape in the gravel a nest) on disturbed ground such as unpaved roadways and parking lots throughout North Carolina. Flocks of hundreds are not uncommon. But frequently other species are mixed in as well. In the Sandhills, the sod farm in Candor hosts large numbers of killdeer around Labor Day. Check them all and you will likely be rewarded with something different mixed in!

The plover family, to which the killdeer belongs, consists of squat, short-necked and billed birds of several species. The semipalmated plover is a close cousin. This slightly smaller species sports only a single neck ring and, curiously, individuals have slightly webbed (or palmate) feet. They can actually swim short distances when in wetter habitat and are thus more versatile foragers.

However, the most curious are the obligate grassland shorebirds that include the well-camouflaged buff-breasted sandpiper and the upland sandpiper. Both nest in the drier prairies of Canada and spend the winter months mainly in the pampas of Argentina. “Buffies” are a buff-brown all over and have delicate-looking heads and short, thin bills and a distinctive ring around the eye. “Uppies” are brownish and have small heads as well, but they have both longer bills and longer legs, along with larger eyes. These two species are thought to be declining — most likely due to habitat loss on both continents.

If you miss the chance to get out in search of inland shorebirds this fall, do not fret! They will move through again come spring, although in smaller numbers. Winter will take its toll but those who do make it back our way will be in vibrant plumage as they wing their way northward to create yet a new generation of grasspipers north of the border. PS

Susan would love to receive your wildlife sightings and photos. She can be contacted by email at susan@ncaves.com or by phone at (910) 695-0651.

How to Clean a Rug

(And go slightly mad)

By Clyde Edgerton

While I was visiting Hillsborough a while back, my wife, Kristina, called me from our home in Wilmington and asked me to stop by her sister’s house in Pittsboro and pick up a rug cleaning machine. Kristina had moved our couch and rolled up our big rug that needed cleaning.

I’d never seen a rug cleaning machine that I knew of.

I thought things through for about a second and asked, “How much does it cost to just get a rug cleaned?”

I was thinking to myself: I’ll have to drive to get the cleaning machine, take it home, figure out how to use it, maybe get one of the kids to help me, take that big rug out on the back deck, clean it, let it dry, put it back, take the cleaner back to Pittsboro.

Kristina answered my question — told me how much it costs to get a rug cleaned.

Holy Moley. I picked up the cleaning machine — it looks like a very large vacuum cleaner — and brought it home. A YouTube video would explain how to operate it.

My job the next day was to write the first draft of a Salt magazine essay about the Frontier Cultures Museum in Staunton, Virginia. I was hoping to have a first draft done by noon but my new job — before starting the essay — was to clean two rugs (was one, now two) with the help of my 9-year-old daughter, Truma. Rug No. 1 — very large, maybe 8-by-12 — had been peed on several times by dog No. 1. Rug No. 2 — about 4-by-8 — had been thrown up on at least several times by dog No. 2. I picture this conversation happening very early on several mornings within the last month:

Dog No. 1 says: “Are they up yet?”

Dog No. 2 says: “Nope.”

No. 1: “I have to pee.”

No. 2: “Pee in the corner of the living room. In the corner by the table. It’ll be days before they figure it out.”

No. 1: “OK. Would you throw up on that other rug in the play room — kind of keep them distracted?”

No. 2: “Sure.”

Truma and I find the YouTube video telling us how to use the machine. The video is 15 minutes long. The person giving instructions seems to be used to talking in a foreign language and I have problems understanding him, but we finally get through the explanation, including how to clean the machine after cleaning the rug. Some assembly and disassembly are involved. Truma takes notes.

Our first task is to go buy some liquid cleaner. About 6 ounces is to be combined with 2 gallons of warm water in a soft plastic container inside a hard plastic container that will keep dirty water separate from the cleaning solution.

We go to Lowe’s and they don’t have our brand — I’d yet to learn that most any concentrated rug cleaner would work. Duh.

Sitting in the parking lot, I call Home Depot. They don’t have our brand, either. I call a rug cleaning service. They are rude. I call another rug cleaning service, explain that I’m sitting in a hot parking lot in a bit of a jam and this person patiently tells me to go to Food Lion.

At Food Lion, the manager walks with me to the rug cleaning stand and finds a substitute concentrate for me. Truma and I buy it and we start home.

At home, we take the machine apart, load it with warm water and cleaner, then put the machine back together. We spread the smaller of the two rugs on our back deck and Truma starts cleaning. Generally speaking, you go over a portion of the rug while holding a trigger beneath the hand grip. The trigger sprays the rug with cleaning solution and then you go over the same portion of the rug and the machine sucks up dirty liquid.

Truma gets tired. I take over and she goes inside, out of the sun.

I finish the cleaning about time it stops being fun. I hang the rugs over the deck railings, disassemble the machine and, in the driveway beside my automobile, start spraying the plastic parts with water from a hose.

The problem with cleaning the plastic parts is that there is a great amount of dog lint inside one of the see-through plastic parts and — though I don’t remember the video telling me to unscrew anything — I notice that if I unscrew four screws, I can pull that section apart. Seeing that lint is like feeling a little popcorn shell-like thing between your teeth when you can’t free it.

I unscrew the screws and nothing happens — nothing comes apart. Oh. I see four more screws. I unscrew them and the thing falls apart, but the lint is still not exposed in any way.

The screws are lined up on the hood of our car. I start putting the screws back in. A screw rolls off the hood of the car and I hear it plink dully onto the cement driveway. I look. It’s nowhere to be seen. I get down on my hands and knees. One of the dogs comes up and sniffs me. It’s dog No. 1. She will go back inside the house and say, “Clyde is out in the driveway. He thinks he’s a dog. It won’t be long before he’s peeing on the rug.”

I didn’t get started on that essay and I cleaned two more rugs the morning after that.

This could go on a long time.

I now better understand the cost of cleaning a rug.”  PS

Clyde Edgerton is the author of ten novels, a memoir and a new work, Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He is the Thomas S. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW.

A Little Bacon Grease, Please

In praise of the olive oil of the south

By Susan Kelly

I miss bacon grease.

My grandmother and my mother — and I, as well, for a while — had a round, silvery metal container on the top of the stove for bacon grease where everyone now has their sea and/or kosher salt bowl. The container held a clever fitted strainer neatly built in, where crispy bits of brown were trapped. These are the bits, my mother says, that make your eggs unlovely if you scramble them up in the same cast iron pan that you cook your bacon in. I have no use for these aesthetics, but it’s easier to answer, “Fine.”

Even less appealing to the eye, beneath the sieve was stuff that resembled pus, but grainier. A semi-solid that wasn’t quite white, but wasn’t quite yellow.

Nowadays, we don’t even cook bacon anymore, or rarely, the big-breakfast must-have that smells so good. We buy it already cooked at Costco and just nuke that baby for your BLT or spinach salad or squash casserole. But at one time bacon grease was king. It reigned over butter, margarine, Crisco, the works. Bacon grease went into cornbread and was an understood ingredient for the pot likker in crowder peas and butterbeans and green beans. You put a dollop in a pan and fried up a hot dog or slice of bologna. Or okra. Heck, you used a cup of the stuff in red beans.

Bacon grease went into the dog food, too. Lab to dachshund, it made their coats shine, or so it was believed. With our dogs drooling over those dry chunks coated with bacon grease, their supper looked so good I nearly wanted to eat it myself.

Bacon grease was the olive oil of yesteryear, though it didn’t come in pretty containers, and you actually had to cook to get it. You couldn’t buy bacon grease at T.J. Maxx, or upscale foodie stores, or the everyday Teeter, for that matter. Still, like olive oil that comes from certain regions or specific orchards, bacon grease had a provenance too: your own kitchen. It wasn’t cold-pressed or extra virgin or truffle-flavored. It was, however, labeled, though not in a foreign language or with pretty, Italianate fonts. The container said GREASE right there in raised, silver, block, all cap letters.

Even purists could throw a little sausage grease in there, too. Neese’s patties are preferred over links, though links are an admittedly more convenient vehicle to dredge, swipe and swish through the syrup left behind by the pancakes and waffles. To this day, I’m still unsure what made me feel more that I’d become a bona fide grownup in the kitchen of my first apartment: potholders, or that store-bought GREASE can.

When it comes to stove-sitting-stuff, salt bowls may be trendier, even healthier, but nothing — including spoon rests and olive oil spritzers — has the personality and presence of a metal grease container. Empty frozen O.J. cans need not apply.  PS

In a former life, Susan Kelly published five novels, won some awards, did some teaching, and made a lot of speeches. These days, she’s freelancing and making up for all that time she spent indoors writing those five novels.

School Daze

A learning experience we all share

By Deborah Salomon

I’m not one to skip down memory lane unless it leads somewhere — in September, obviously, to long hallways lined with classrooms and metal lockers.

Back to school: a marketing phrase that exposes layers of emotion. Amazing, at an age when many recollections have begun to blur, school retains IMAX clarity, a permanence drawn with a stick in wet concrete.

Why? Young minds are eager, receptive, soaking up experiences like eggplant soaks up oil. I remember my fourth-grade teacher and classmates better than college professors and sorority sisters. Within these halls I also identify the roots of lifelong fears and pleasures.

The elementary school I attended bore no resemblance to Norman Rockwell’s. We wore uniforms. Teachers didn’t accept apples, and nobody got detention. My mother, a high school math teacher, had high hopes for her only child. So she chose a private girls’ school deemed “progressive” by 1945 standards. I loved it. Classes were small, about 12; French conversation was taught in Grade 1 (great idea); and faculty moved students along as they saw fit. At the end of Grade 2, the headmistress — a formidable dowager with Edwardian bosom, lace collar and a gray nape bun — decided with some tutoring during summer vacation I could take on Grade 4.

The tutoring, implemented by my mother, boiled down to multiplication tables. I resisted, resentful at having to memorize numbers while other kids played outside. She employed tactics I’d rather not mention. During that summer I envisioned, come fall, the entire fourth grade devoted to multiplication when all I wanted to do was read. To this day, flash cards give me hives. To this day, also, I’m wobbly on 12-times. Furthermore (a dark secret), I couldn’t tell time because my parents owned the world’s first digital clock, with wheel-mounted numbers that clicked into place every minute. I was terrified, absolutely terrified. Things worked out, I guess. I only remembered the clock incident when my grandson, spoiled by Velcro, had trouble tying his shoelaces.

By junior high (now called middle school) I lived in a different city on a different planet. Nobody cared about multiplication. Everybody cared about whether you wore bobby sox rolled up or down. The arbiter was the girl with the most sweater sets and the coolest boyfriend.

High school . . . much better. I was a cheerleader when our basketball team won the state championship. Latin made sense. Algebra proved way easier than 12-times; plane geometry, a snap. My English teacher meted out inspiration but took no prisoners. I finally got the sox thing right and had a few cool boyfriends. Then, senior year, my friends’ older siblings, home for Thanksgiving, bombarded us with warnings about college: impossibly difficult, tons of work, heartless instructors, killer exams.

“Just you wait,” was the message.

Again, I was terrified not only by the academics, but because for the first time in my life I would have a roommate. With eight siblings, this was the first time in my roommate’s life that she had only one. She took advantage of the quiet by studying, writing letters and praying. I admired her dedication. We hardly spoke.

Roomie and I split at end of semester. Let’s see . . . what was her name?

The dire warnings about workload guaranteed panic. Worse, I got lost changing classroom buildings on Duke’s two campuses. I misplaced a textbook. Then, after midterms, it hit me: I can do this. Not easy, but possible. I’d come this far, right?

I was an active participant during my children’s school years — mostly as provider of rides, lunches, pocket money, the right jeans. Kids hung around our house for the big, friendly dog and homemade cookies. Pushover mom could be persuaded to drop everything, pile a gang into the station wagon and head for the movies.

September brought relief tempered by envy. Ah, the thrill of flipping through a new textbook, the woody smell of freshly sharpened pencils, the joy at finding the right cartoon-character backpack.

But, unlike some old-timers, I don’t yearn to return. School has changed. Fonzie’s a senior citizen hawking reverse mortgages on TV. Police patrol the grounds. Cursive is hieroglyphics, soda fountains are extinct. Hoodies and “jeggings” replace sweater sets and bobby sox, and every phone multiplies by 12.

This September, however, my interest is rekindled. Back-to-school means law school. After graduating with honors from an accelerated pre-law college program, my grandson will commence studying for his chosen career.

The very idea terrifies me. Not him. He has times-12 down pat and reads an analog clock. He can tie his shoelaces, drive a car, keep a steady girlfriend and make a grilled cheese sandwich. Laptop loaded, apps in place, roommate selected, apartment rented — he’s good to go.

Far, I hope.  PS

Deborah Salomon is a staff writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

Don’t Get “Bored”

What’s a squash lover to do?

By Jan Leitschuh

You know the old joke about zucchini in small towns? How you dare not leave your car windows down on the street or some neighbor will kindly donate a bagful of the oversized green vegetables, thanks to their prolific abundance. Maybe that friendly donor was even you.

Well, that never happened here. Not after our first year of gardening.

Sure, that initial garden season, we were flush. The bugs hardly knew we were here. If a person finally licks his or her deer problem (more on that in a later column), what’s left to decimate the summer squash? Vine-killing squash borers, in spades.

Word of our organic venture zapped out swiftly on the bug internet. Now we have well-established borer populations that allow us one — count ’em, one — delicious early flush of zukes, and then they take out the vines at the base like commandos.

Working organically, I had a little luck spraying a kaolin clay barrier product developed for orchards, called “Surround,” but I generally forget to apply it in time. I also plant summer squash in flushes, trying to space out several plantings to have enough to freeze. But you have to remember to do this in a timely fashion.

Squash vine borers (Melittia cucurbitae) are a major problem for organic gardeners. The adult squash vine borer is a colorful moth, 5/8 inch long with orange and black legs. The adult may be mistaken for a wasp in the garden. Young larvae hatch from dark reddish brown eggs and grow to about one inch with a whitish body and brown head.

Borer larvae tunnel into the base of the plant and interrupt the flow of water and nutrients. The larvae feed on plant tissue, hollowing it out, so the plants begin to wither. The homeowner waters, thinking the plants are dry. But the vines don’t perk up, instead continuing to yellow and die. If you cut open the stem of a decimated plant, you may see several. I feed them to the chickens when I can.

What’s a squash lover to do? Squash can help lower blood sugar, being a good complex carb. It’s known for its ability to boost the immune system, help prevent certain types of cancer, improve vision, protect the skin, strengthen the bones, reduce blood pressure, maintain fluid balance, regulate blood sugar and cholesterol, improve digestion, and maintain proper circulation. It’s good stuff, and it’s tasty too. Squash is the ultimate easy side dish, amenable to any number of spices and flavorings.

This is the year I decided to learn about winter squashes. Yes, I could have gone with physical barriers like row covers or wrapping individual stems of my summer squash but, until retirement looms, those efforts will remain spotty.

When I learned the best defense against borers is to plant squash varieties that are squash vine borer-resistant, I started researching. And first on the list was a favorite, a winter squash — butternut.

Waltham Butternut squash (Cucurbita moschata) is said to be reasonably tolerant of the vine borer, as are most other butternut types. Showing up as summer drifts into the cooler relief of fall, we love butternut squashes for their wonderful taste, and use them in soups, casseroles and baking. What is easier than halving a butternut, scooping out the little pocket of seeds at the ball end, dropping in some butter or olive oil and microwaving — or better, yet, roasting, to bring out the sweetness?

The flesh of butternut squash is close-grained and sweet-nutty. The beauty of butternut, and its cousin acorn, is that it rises to nearly any flavor occasion.

Want sweet? Sprinkle some cinnamon, brown sugar, rum-soaked raisins, maple syrup, pecans, apples, honey, walnuts, pear-fig sauce, orange zest, peach-habanero jam or any combo of the above that suits your taste buds, and roast for a healthy dessert. Any of these stand in for dessert, or go great with pork as a fall side dish.

Want savory? Any number of spices can change the character of this versatile veggie nightly: curries, cayenne, sage, bouillon stock granules, garlic and olive oil, oregano and hot pepper flakes, thyme, simple salt and pepper. Bake fries from them, smother them in cheese, cram them into chicken stock to make soups. Baked, roasted, caramelized, mashed, cubed, casseroled, shredded and hashed, frittered and fried, there are myriad iterations. Since they will store for many months in a cool pantry, basement or under-cabinet, they’re fine for winter use. Butternuts are also easy to grow so they make good choices for novice, as well as experienced, gardeners. Next year, they will have a place in our garden.

There are other choices beyond butternut. The University of Illinois Extension reports that Blue Hubbard (Cucurbita maxima “Blue Hubbard”) performs best against squash vine borers, followed by the slightly less resistant Cucurbita maxima “Boston Marrow” and Cucurbita maxima “Golden Delicious” varieties of hubbard squash. The extension also reports that two pumpkin varieties, Cucurbita pepo “Connecticut Field” and Cucurbita pepo “Small Sugar” — both heirloom varieties — also perform well. All of these are good keepers and cheerily decorative in autumn displays.

Another Mediterranean heirloom called cucuzzi (Lagenaria siceraria), also known as either the snake gourd or Italian edible gourd — though technically not a squash — is said to be indistinguishable in taste from a sweet squash or pumpkin and is highly resistant to vine borers. The long slender fruit is pale green and twists and spirals like a snake, hence its most common name.

Finally, the hefty, green-striped cushaw (Cucurbita mixta) is an old heirloom and one tough vegetable, grown by native Americans since prehistoric times. Drought tolerant and insect resistant — including the squash vine borer — it’s also reported to be an excellent keeper and great-tasting variety for use in pies or for snacking on seeds. You get your money’s worth with a cushaw squash — they can grow to be massive, though homeowners may wish to pick them smaller. It’s the ultimate winter storage food, so if you get a big one be ready to prepare it all and freeze the rest or serve it up to a crowd.

Here are two simple recipes to render your winter squash meals delicious, however you acquire them.

Winter Squash Caramel

2 medium butternut squash

6 tablespoons melted butter

1/4 cup light brown sugar, packed

1 1/2 teaspoons sea salt

1/2 teaspoons freshly ground black pepper

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Peel and cube squash, removing seeds. In a bowl, toss cubes with the remaining ingredients. Spread in a baking dish and roast for 45 minutes to an hour, turning occasionally, until glaze begins to caramelize. Remove when tender and serve hot.

Easy Spicy-Savory Squash

Using the same prep as above, instead toss cubes with olive oil, thyme, black pepper, salt and a little cayenne pepper. Roast in a baking dish, single layer, covered, for 30-45 minutes, until soft, then stir in 1/4 cup grated Romano cheese. Sprinkle additional cheese on top and serve hot.  PS

Jan Leitschuh is a local gardener, avid eater of fresh produce and co-founder of the Sandhills Farm to Table Cooperative.

Subtle Notes

And the myriad of flavors from Winston-Salem’s Sutler’s Gin

By Tony Cross

“When are you coming up to Winston-Salem? How does your schedule look for the next two weeks? Any chance you are coming to the Triad area? Either way I need to get Sutler’s Gin into your market very soon.” All are questions from Scot Sanborn, owner and distiller of Sutler’s Gin. Sanborn and I were introduced via email from a mutual friend back in March. We’d been playing tag up until July, when the two of us finally sat down at his distillery and had a chance to talk. When we went our separate ways, I left Sanborn a bottle of my Tonyc and took with me his sleek and sexy bottle of Sutler’s that I purchased. I definitely got the better deal in the exchange.

Although he was born in Boston, Sanborn considers himself a “Southern soul with Yankee blood.” As he relocated to the South as an infant, Charleston, South Carolina, served as his stomping ground as a youth. After graduating high school, Sanborn went on to attend The Citadel, where he received his undergraduate degree, and later, his MBA.

When scanning over his unique bottle of gin, you can definitely see the patriotic influence. Twenty-some years of the commercial photography business followed, but it wasn’t until eight years ago, when Sanborn began experimenting with home distilling, that his passion developed. After making what he calls “horrible tasting spirits,” Sanborn began taking distilling courses, traveling the country, and acting as an apprentice to deepen his knowledge and perfect his craft. Soon after, he left his domestic cocoon of garage distilling and took it to the next level.

Gin is the spirit that has intrigued him the most over the years for a few different reasons. “It’s versatile and classy, and it doesn’t require aging, which means that I knew that I could get it on the market much quicker than other spirits starting out.” He’s also been perplexed as to why gin sales in the South aren’t much higher than they are: “I feel that gin is a spirit that people have forgotten about, but are slowly returning to.” And he’s right: Most folks that I’ve talked to that pass on gin do so because they’re used to London Dry gins, whose characteristics are juniper-forward, or “piney,” as most would put it (think Beefeater’s or Tanqueray). It wasn’t until Hendrick’s went global that people began to rethink their position on the ever-changing botanical spirit.

Delving into a glass of Sutler’s, on the nose I immediately notice the presence of juniper. However, on the palate, the juniper is present, but nothing like a London Dry or as Sanborn calls it “a lack of a ‘punch in the mouth’ Christmas tree flavor.” In fact, I find that the juniper is balanced quite nicely with citrus, and coriander. On the finish, a trace of lavender and Earl Grey tea. I’ve never prided myself on having the best palate so I’m afraid that I’ve had to keep sipping just to make sure that I get this right.

Actually, this is something that Sanborn and I have in common: good, but not great palates. To help him with distinguishing the subtler notes of his labors, Sanborn recruited distiller Tim Nolan. The two met in Winston-Salem a few years ago when Sanborn was building his distillery. Sanborn would cool off next door at a bar/brewery and would chat with Nolan, who managed and was behind the bar. Nolan’s background spans over 10 years in the food and beverage industry, which includes working in New York and studying abroad in Italy. They would always chat, and “during one of these conversations, I realized he was very knowledgeable about gin and I asked if he would like to help me.” After a short apprenticeship, Nolan became a “mad scientist, (and) after almost 11 months of hard work, and making all types of gin, Nolan and I were finally confidant that we had something that was special. I am very lucky to have found someone who is so passionate about gin and other unique spirits. Nolan is a great asset to Sutler’s Spirit Co.”

Even though Sanborn and Nolan can drink the fruits of their labor, they still have other obstacles to overcome. One of them? Moore County. I guarantee that as I am writing this, 99 percent of locals have not purchased a bottle of Sutler’s Gin, and that’s because it hasn’t been available in our local ABC stores.

“Moore County has been quite the conundrum,” Sanborn says. “I would have expected with the demographics of this area that gin would be consumed much more than it currently is. I would like to think that for some reason they have forgotten gin, but will soon remember it.”

After a meeting with the local board in July, it will now. Even though they’re only selling in North Carolina at the moment, Sanborn stresses the importance of getting his gin in every ABC store. “If your local ABC board does not carry it, please request it, and most likely they will be happy to order it for you,” he says.

It’s only a matter of time before Sutler’s Gin makes its way across the Southeast and other parts of our nation. The gin has plenty of depth, with unique packaging to boot. In time, Sanborn and Nolan plan to release a rum that they’ve had barrel-aging for a few years. They’re hoping for a winter release, but nothing’s set in stone yet. In addition to the gin and rum, they’re experimenting with other spirits at the moment. Their gin is delicious, so I’m eagerly anticipating their rum, my favorite spirit. With the work ethic that these two employ, I’m sure it’s going to be nothing short of fantastic. PS

Tony Cross is a bartender who runs cocktail catering company Reverie Cocktails in Southern pines. He can also recommend a vitamin supplement for the morning after at Nature’s Own.

Pinot Noir Goes Gaucho

Chileans find surprising success with a difficult grape

By Robyn James

Pinot noir: the Holy Grail of wine grapes. It’s finicky, it’s elusive, and it may be the best wine you ever had, or the worst. As the primary red grape of Burgundy, France, be prepared to spend $50 for a low-level basic Burgundy and sell your car to try the best.

It’s a joke in the wine industry that there is no such thing as a “good value” pinot noir. It’s painstaking and expensive to grow this grape that needs vines with age and lower yields at harvest. 

Many love Oregon; California gets a lot of play, and New Zealand has made great strides with the grape.

Ever considered pinot noir from Chile? Probably a resounding no. Fifteen years ago I sampled some Chilean pinot noirs and thought, hey folks, stick to chardonnay, cabernet and carménère.

Pinot noir takes time for vines to age, and winemakers need to find very site-specific areas for the grapes that need a cooler climate, preferably with a maritime influence. Fast forward 15 years, and winemakers have zeroed in on the Casablanca, Maule and Aconcagua Valleys on the coast, brought pinot noir clones from Burgundy and hired Burgundian consultants. The vines are older now, and Chile is off and running with pinot noir. Although pinot noir is only 3 percent of Chile’s total plantings, it has increased 170 percent since 2006. Chilean winemakers have embraced the challenge.

Eric Monnin, a French enologist with experience working in Champagne and Burgundy, splits his winemaking duties between Chile and France. He is the head winemaker for the Boutinot Company and supervises making the El Viejo del Valle pinot noir. He and his team discovered a very old block of pinot noir beneath a volcano in the Maule Valley and picked it to produce this little gem that sells for a ridiculous $9. The interesting label is a reproduction of Chilean street art, and if you look closely you can find the profile of the “Old Man of the Valley” hidden in the art. They describe their El Viejo pinot as “deliciously long, bright, textural pinot from cold, stony vineyards deep in the Maule Valley. Some oak barrel fermentation adds complexity, depth and warm vanilla notes to the finish.”

Don Maximiano Errazuriz founded his winery in 1870 in the Aconcagua Valley. His fifth generation descendants now run this natural quality winery and have named their reserve lines “Max” in his honor. Already located in a great pinot location, a visit to Chile should include Errazuriz. The estate is stunning, and their techniques are first class. This wine was aged in French oak barrels, 15 percent new, for 12 months before release. One of the first Chilean wineries to gain success with pinot noir, the current vintage scored a whopping 90 points from The Wine Spectator. They describe it as “a suave red, with a silky mouthfeel and medium-grained tannins behind the flavors of cherry, plum and hazelnut. The spicy finish is long and rich, revealing accents of sandalwood.” That’s a description and score worthy of a $65 Oregon pinot noir. This winner from Chile is about $17.

August Huneeus, born in Santiago, Chile, has one of the most impressive résumés in the wine industry. He became CEO for Concha Y Toro at a very young age, then came to the United States for a long, successful career. He owns several prestigious wineries in California such as Quintessa (where he resides), The Prisoner, Illumination and several others.

In 1989 Huneeus and his wife, Valeria, decided to venture back into Chile and founded the Veramonte Winery in Casablanca Valley. Their Ritual pinot noir is hand-harvested from the coolest vineyards of their estate, put through a malolactic fermentation and aged in French oak barrels for 12 months. The Wine Advocate gave this $18 wine 89 points, and noted that, “This aims at showing what Casablanca can do as a valley in pinot noir. There are more fruit than herbal aromas here, and this shows nice ripeness, combining aromas of sour cherries with lactic hints and bare traces of spicy oak. The palate is medium bodied with fine tannins, good freshness and the final granite bite in the finish with the oak much better integrated.”

Incidentally, Chile has the same ability as California to allow up to 25 percent of another grape into the wine without noting it on the label. However, all three of our pinots recommended are happily 100 percent pinot noir. “A” for effort, Chile!  PS

Robyn James is a certified sommelier and proprietor of The Wine Cellar and Tasting Room in Southern Pines. Contact her at robynajames@gmail.com.